


Election.

by shefollowedfires



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Current Events, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Politics, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shefollowedfires/pseuds/shefollowedfires
Summary: Set in 3x04, "Watch the Thrones". I was given the prompt "Great. Perfect. Nice. Fuck this."... and then the first week of Trump's presidency happened, and suddenly this became mild political commentary wrapped in Kabby fluff. Oops. (I'm not sorry.)





	

He was exhausted.    
  
He’d been awake for nearly a full twenty-four hours; a marathon of alertness that, as it was these days, he hadn’t been given the chance to prepare for. In all truth, he was nearly ready for bed when Octavia’s voice crackled urgently through his radio that Pike was in the process of instigating a coup. The resulting intervention had been successful: the man in question was now safely behind bars, along with his small band of followers. But that manageable little troupe had stirred awake the sleeping giant of fear that they’d been tiptoeing around since the first report came that there were “other people” on the ground. In lieu of a roar, this beast chose instead to chant, a repetition of validated rage that echoed relentlessly in Marcus’ ears. Its voice was the voice of his people – his friends – his colleagues. Its face was that of a young man he thought trusted him.    
  
And so Marcus had traded his morning shift for David Miller’s overnight watch, little more than adrenaline keeping his eyes sharp as he looked out from the turret – trained, this time, on both sides of the fence.   
  
They were not silent hours. As soon as the chanting had quieted and Pike had been locked away, another voice cried out that there was no use in waiting until the morning – they should open up the vote  _ now _ . Abby had made a plea that emotions were high and such an important decision should be made with a level, rested mind; but it went unheard. Marcus had been forced to put his body between hers and the crush of the angry crowd; and before he could recognize the consequences, he put his mind there, too. He suggested that they could quietly open the vote now, but then keep it open until the morning for those who might not be so confident in their decision. They accepted the compromise, and a datapad was swiftly rigged up for the procedure, tucked into a cordoned-off section of the mess hall.   
  
What this led to, however, was eight hours of overhearing impassioned discussions floating up from the courtyard that celebrated Pike’s virtues; that grieved the failings of Marcus Kane. Helpless to defend himself at his post, the long, merciless night of sharp whispers soon found that… he had no right to. There were some, thankfully, who offered kind rebuttals in defense of his character – and he made a point of recording those timid praises into his memory as motivation should the tides miraculously turn in his favour. He would owe it to those who called him “dedicated”, “wise”, “compassionate” and “a changed man” to, indeed,  _ be _ those things. But, even accounting for his own inclination against himself, the overwhelming majority seemed unsure of him; and he couldn’t, in all honesty, fault them for it.    
  
Pike’s people, on the other hand, were ferociously resolute.    
  
By the time his shift finished, the moon had fallen behind the horizon to make way for a new day. The camp was asleep; he was thankful that the courtyard had cleared of any potential for the kind of awkward apologies and flattery that come with having just spoken about someone who suddenly appears. He was thankful, too, that it was the older Miller who would relieve him of his post; the man had demonstrated his loyalty to compassionate causes even before Marcus himself had learned how. There would be no figurative passing-of-the-torch to someone whose watch would be focused on finding any sort of activity that might affirm their fear of the Grounder army and ignite the flame of hatred.    
  
Not yet, anyway.    
  
Still, as he made his way back inside, every muscle desperately crying out for his bed… he couldn’t help a little bit of curiosity. He knew that there was a second datapad, to be found in the Chancellor’s office, where the results would have been updating as each vote was processed. It wasn’t technically  _ illegal _ to have a look, he rationalized, as long as he didn’t tamper with it. Just an informative glance, to know where the fate of his people stood, and then he’d go to bed.    
  
He knew there was no one in these darkened halls who would call him out on the vaguely petulant behaviour, and he knew that ultimately there was nothing to be called out on – but that didn’t stop him from giving a cautious glance in either direction as he placed his hand on the door handle and pushed. He was still focused on the empty hallways as he backed into the office; but as he finally closed the door behind him, a foreign shadow appeared at the very edge of his vision that froze him in place.    
  
The shadow didn’t appear to be moving, so he hazarded a slow turn towards it. When he was finally able to identify what it was… he was helpless to do anything but soften entirely.    
  
What he found was this: the soon-to-be-former Chancellor curled up sidelong on the couch, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her head lolled to the side on the armrest, away from him; but her slow, even breathing inarguably confirmed that Abby Griffin was, indeed, deep in sleep. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, thankful that at least one of them had managed to get some rest. Carefully, as quietly as he could, he made his way towards her, pulling up a stool to sit by her head.    
  
The first time he’d caught her like this, he’d sat there for nearly an hour as he deliberated about whether or not to wake her. Eventually, he did, and the scolding he’d received in return was enough to wither a stronger man than he; so he’d let her go back to sleep. A few hours later, he’d encountered her in Medical, doing her best to look busy and active… with the posture of a woman thirty years her senior. She’d reluctantly admitted defeat, and slowly, with each (surprisingly frequent)  incident, his deliberation time shrank down to half an hour, to twenty minutes, to ten; right down to a matter of seconds.    
  
No matter how confident and quick he’d gotten himself to be in these situations, there was always a moment, like the one he found himself in now, where he found himself in a mild, uncharacteristic panic at the thought that… he’d have to touch her. He’d have to reach out, put a hand on her shoulder, and gently give it a shake; entirely too aware of the taut muscles he would be clutching, and far too familiar with the warmth that would rise up from her skin through her shirt and settle into his fingertips. It was boyish, and completely irrational – but completely inescapable.   
  
However, he always reminded himself, so too was the necessity of preserving the overloaded woman’s back.   
  
So, he did as duty demanded.    
  
“Hey,” he gently urged as he gave her shoulder a shake. He could be forgiven for not letting go immediately tonight, he thought with a thrill as he felt her breathe deeply back to wakefulness. Her lashes fluttered, and suddenly she was turning to face him; her eyes bleary, cheeks flushed with sleep. She smiled.     
  
“What time is it?” she inquired groggily.    
  
“A little after four.”   
  
She huffed a dark laugh, impressed at the early hour. Then, suddenly, the mirth evaporated, and her gaze drifted over his shoulder towards the desk – or rather towards what was on it. The datapad. Wordlessly, Marcus rose and retrieved the cursed object, holding it out towards her.    
  
As she unfolded her arms to reach out and take it, Marcus suddenly noticed a shape peaking out from where it had been wedged between Abby’s waist and the couch: a bottle.    
  
“You’ve been drinking?” he pointed out as she sat up, nodding toward the liquor. Confusion flickered across her face in the moment before her eyes settled on the giveaway nestled next to her. Her gaze returned to him as she pieced the evening together; but only momentarily, a deep sadness suddenly pulling her gaze toward the floor. He returned to his seat. “That bad, is it?”   
  
“I’ve been following it all night,” she confessed, clutching the datapad tightly. “Its been close.”    
  
He wrestled against himself as he suddenly felt a flicker of hope that perhaps not all was lost. He looked up at her with what he knew was nothing less than a pathetic expression, timidly asking a question like a little boy asking his mum for dessert. She gave a small nod in response, and powered up the datapad. She cringed as suddenly the bright blue light accosted her sensitive eyes in the darkness.    
  
Unruly wisps of hair fell over her face, freed from her ragged ponytail as she navigated to the application that would give them their answers; the light of the screen cutting bright shapes into the depths of her pupils as they flickered back and forth with purpose. The cool blue glow filtered between her long fingers, softly highlighting the curves of her cheekbones, her little nose, and her painfully-feminine collarbone.  “Ethereal” didn’t feel quite appropriate, for a number of reasons, but it was the only word resounding in Marcus’ mind as he valiantly fought the urge to stare.     
  
It was also far too natural to lean in close to her as they both eyed the screen - as though the space within the inches next to Abby had always been reserved for him. It hadn’t, of course; but he could no longer remember when, exactly, that space had opened to him, and there was no good in trying to remember what it was like before. It was harder, though, to imagine what it could be like to have the  _ next _ space opened to him: the one that would take him from being beside her to being a  _ part _ of her. He couldn’t – and shouldn’t - imagine that she might one day invite him to study every muscle, every curve, every bone, and every nerve that comprised Abby Griffin’s strong little body. He certainly shouldn’t imagine what he could do with that knowledge.   
  
Marcus folded his arms across his knees; fingertips buzzing with the risk of anarchy.     
  
Finally, the data appeared - but before he could get a look, Abby abruptly shut down the datapad, tossing it carelessly to the other side of the couch where it landed face-down; submerging them in darkness once more.   
  
“Abby…” he groaned in annoyance. She grabbed the bottle and rose from the couch, stiffly padding over towards the cupboards on the far side of the room.   
  
“Great. Perfect. Nice,” she muttered bitterly to herself as she clumsily dug around in the shelves, pawing around until her hand finally settled on what she was looking for: a mug. She worked with haste to unscrew the cap of the bottle, and threw back her head as she took a long, desperate drink. She then began to pour some of what remained of the liquor into the mug she’d produced, and brought both bottle and mug back to where Marcus had been watching the petulant display with mild horror. She held out the cup towards him expectantly. He raised an eyebrow.    
  
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”    
  
“Seventy-two percent, Marcus,” she announced sharply. “That’s where he’s at.”   
  
He blinked at the news, the implications of such a profound majority slowly settling into his brain. With all the camp asleep save for them – and he had to appreciate the bitter imagery of that wakefulness – there was very little chance that the gap would close by morning. The election belonged to Pike.   
  
_ Fuck it.  _   
  
He accepted the cup, taking an indulgent sip as Abby took a seat on the couch. The drink was potent, raging as it burned its way down his throat; but he was very well-aware that it wasn’t to blame for the sudden whirling in his head. Abby chewed her bottom lip, and he could see the wheels turning as she stared towards the floor.

“I could always talk to Raven, get her to change-”    
  
“That would be fraud, Abby.”   
  
Abby sighed.   
  
“Maybe the Grounders have it figured out. Maybe democracy is a mistake.”   
  
Marcus almost choked on his drink as he laughed mid-sip, shaking his head.   
  
“There’s still time,” he mused playfully, “you could always declare yourself sovereign.”    
  
And then, with false aplomb, raising his mug as a salute:   
  
“Supreme Leader Abigail Griffin, of the Democratic People’s Republic of Arkadia!”   
  
She rolled her eyes at the dramatics, smiling sadly as she accepted his point. There wasn’t much that she retained from the History classes they’d taken in their youth, but she did remember that North Korea’s lust for power had ultimately seen it face the worst of the nuclear devastation. The satellite images they’d been shown of an entire country reduced to miles upon miles of sprawling dust and ash had been imprinted in her mind forever.     
  
“For what it’s worth,” Abby offered, suddenly serious, “I voted for you.”    
  
He breathed a short laugh.   
  
“Who could have predicted…?” he pondered aloud, shaking his head with disbelief as he reflected on times and conflicts past. The words “keep you from becoming Chancellor” and “easiest decision I’ve ever made” reverberated dully in his mind, distant and utterly foreign now. As he looked up at her, he realized the look she was leveling him with was one of deep, wounding offense.   
  
“Tell me you didn’t honestly think I would support Pike,” she accused, her eyes darkening dangerously.   
  
“No, it’s just-“   
  
“Just what, Marcus?” she spat. An alarm sounded in Marcus’ mind as he recognized the beginnings of a whirlpool of righteous rage rising within her, and he quickly raised his hands in surrender. He paired the gesture with a warning look that told her she was missing the mark; and sure enough, he watched as the fury in her eyes dissipated.   
  
“It’s just,” he began, repeating the words with deliberate care, “that I didn’t always have you as a pillar of confidence.”     
  
A smile of recognition played at her lips.   
  
“You hadn’t shown me I could be,” she mused, and there was no accusation in it; no condescension, no reviving of past wrongs. Her voice was low, soft… kind. And there was something in the way she studied his face now that struck him as something dangerously close to affection, the warmth of which he had to fight to keep from physically squirming beneath.   
  
“Maybe it will be the same for Charles,” he posited suddenly, taking a drink. “He’s a good man. He’s just… scared.”   
  
“As are our people, no thanks to him,” Abby countered. The cynicism took Marcus by surprise, and she explained: “I know you know him better than I do, but even at your worst, Marcus, you wouldn’t have proposed  _ genocide _ .”    
  
“You don’t know that.”   
  
“Well, did you?”   
  
“…No.”   
  
“My point exactly,” she concluded. “He’s a different man.”   
  
“He could still prove us wrong.”   
  
Abby shook her head.    
  
“There’s got to be something we can do,” she implored. She swallowed back a wave of emotion as she continued: “Clarke is still out there.”   
  
The realization was crushing: not knowing where Abby’s daughter was had been devastating for her, but now it would be the certainty that Clarke was deep in the inner circle of the people Pike had sworn to eradicate that would hang over her head like a guillotine. Marcus knew that he could ply her with assurances that Clarke would be recognized, that she would be spared from the massacre, but he couldn’t speak them truthfully.    
  
Abby finished off the rest of the alcohol with a thick swallow, eyes suddenly red with the burning, glistening threat of tears. His heart splintered as a rogue droplet broke the crest and spilled down her cheek. 

She reached up to hastily wipe it away, and before he could stop himself, his hand was reaching for hers.

Pulling her hand away from her cheek, he brought it down towards his knee and gripped it tightly, clapping his other hand over it as well to encase her thin, soft fingers in complete protective warmth.     
  
She exhaled. His heart raced as he studied her raw expression – heartsickness, appreciation, affection, and, most dominantly, intrigue – but failed to find any degree of shock or confusion. Maybe the moment called for this kind of gesture more than he’d considered. Abby was an affectionate woman, always had been; reminding those she cared about of their importance to her with casual touches and generous embraces. Maybe now he was simply falling in line with everyone else, instead of maintaining his usual protective barrier - though at present, he couldn't recall what it was, exactly, that he was protecting himself against.  
  
Maybe he was a little drunk. And maybe she was, too.   
  
He allowed himself to push the edges a little bit further, brushing small circles into her smooth skin with his thumb. _Comforting_. He tested the word in his mind; found that he liked it being there. He thought he felt her give his hand a strong squeeze; thought he could see the shadow of a smile at the edge of her lips. His confidence soared.   
  
He took a deep breath.   
  
“This is what we do,” he began, “No matter what happens, you and I… we stand together. We show our people that there’s a reason to believe that real peace exists, that we can all thrive together. We show them that it’s possible to resist fear. And at every turn, we choose…”   
  
He halted as he suddenly caught the meaning of what he was about to say:   
  
_Love_. _We choose to love._  
  
His confidence withered. At some point during his impassioned speech, Abby had abandoned the bottle on the floor and placed her free hand on top of the other three, discreetly moving herself ever-so-slightly closer towards him. The nearness of her, the tenderness of her hand on his, almost stirred his heart into a panic. She eyed him curiously as he struggled to give the last sentence the ending it deserved. He thought, for a moment, that he caught her gaze flickering to his lips as she drew forward in apprehension. He needed to believe it had, to forgive his own gaze for being similarly irresponsible. He needed to believe she wanted him to; that in some world he might be the kind of man who was worthy of her want.   
.   
He needed… oh. There it was.  
  
Marcus smiled.   
  
“We choose… hope.”  
  
Something shifted in Abby’s eyes as she processed his words. She nodded, briefly breaking eye contact as she swallowed back some new wave of emotion that glistened - no, sparkled - when she looked back up at him. Happy tears. She lifted her hand, which had been absentmindedly drawing lines along the veins on the back of his, and raised it to his cheek. He was helpless to resist leaning into the touch, melting into that exquisite affection with which Abby effortlessly soothed so many before him. There was a faint glow of joyful disbelief as she studied him.     
  
“You’re a good man, Marcus,” she declared brightly. “I hope you know that.”  
  
“Mm,” he replied, not quite comfortable with explicit agreement on the matter just yet. The warmth of her enveloped him all the same, and he closed his eyes. As he did so, the memory of his exhaustion came flooding back like a tidal wave, and he breathed deep. “We have a long day ahead of us, Abby. We should get some rest.”   
  
Abby nodded, offering him one last gentle smile before reluctantly removing each of her hands and rising to deposit the now-empty bottle into the cupboard.   
  
She would be hurting in the morning, he mused. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Abby drink; and although she’d been surprisingly coherent and well-composed - even now as she retrieved his empty mug from him to return it to its place -  he knew that three-quarters of a bottle of Monty’s moonshine would wreak a special kind of havoc on _anyone_ ’s body, let alone one as small as hers. And with the intoxicating warmth of her touch on his skin now removed, he knew better than to expect a continuation of the night’s intimacy come sunrise.   
  
There was still truth to every inebriated thought, he knew; but as they quietly made their way to their separate quarters and bid each other good night, there was only one truth in tonight that he would let himself cling to in the dark days to come:  
  
Abby Griffin was on his side.                
  
  



End file.
